


Which She Fills with Regrets

by GamblingDementor



Category: A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder - Lutvak/Freedman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, F/M, Pool Boy Monty, Swimming Pools
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-02-27 10:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GamblingDementor/pseuds/GamblingDementor
Summary: Monty and Sibella met three times in their lives. As kids, as teens, as adults. All the times they saw each other, and in between, when they did not.Sibella-focused, modern AU, pool boy!Monty.





	1. The Ragged Knight

"You're not supposed to be here."

  


Sibella is six and a good deal too proud and clever for her age, Mama always says, but only because she knows she'll get away with it. And if she gets away with bossing her parents around, and her foolish sister and even her brother, then how much more this lost little boy who just stands there with eyes as round as tea plates?

  


"Oh, beg your pardon, Miss," the maid replies, her head popping out of the second downstairs bathroom. Noticing Sibella staring at the boy, she comes out of the room entirely, pulling off her cleaning gloves and rubbing her wet hands on her apron before patting the boy's head − her son, Sibella supposes, though he looks nothing much like her with his curls and dark features. "But Mrs Hallward said he could stay if he wasn't a bother. Of course, if you'd prefer, I'll…"

  


"I never said he was a bother," Sibella retorts pointedly.

  


She hates it when grown-ups assume she doesn't know what she's saying. Looking at the boy, she sees again why he is so out of place, an employee's son. He is older than her, she assesses, maybe even as old as Grahame. His jumper must have belonged to someone twice his size and falls loose on his scrawny frame, but his trousers come a good couple inches above his gnarled ankles. His crop of curly hair looks like it's been brushed over and over without getting tamed, and his eyes… Sibella decides that there is something she likes about him, how demure his attitude, maybe. She makes a mental note to tell her tutor about her using the word demure, even in her own mind. That will for sure land her a gold star, hopefully enough to climb ahead of Cynthia.

  


"Do you want to come play knight and princess with me?" She asks him.

  


The boy looks at the maid hopefully and, for no reason she can explain, Sibella feels the urge to beg.

  


"Oh, please, Isobel, we'll be good! Grahame never agrees to play knight with me anymore…"

  


The maid seems to hesitate and Sibella stomps her feet impatiently. She hates waiting ever so much, even more when she is tempted with the novelty of a new play mate and must be stopped by such obligations as adults' permissions.

  


"Of course, Miss, if you really want…" The maid quickly replies. "Go on, Monty, go play with Miss Sibella, look how happy you'll make her!"

  


Monty is an excellent game partner, Sibella decides after two rounds of draughts that she of course won, by his intervention or not.

  


"I'm tired of this," Sibella sighs, pushing the board away.

  


"Of course!" Monty says, standing to his feet to wherever Sibella will lead him. "What do you want to do, Miss Sibella?"

  


Sibella taps her chin thoughtfully. It's been so long since she's had a good game partner. Ever since Cynthia started school, she's been above Sibella's company, proud and busy. Even Grahame, who was always Sibella's favorite sibling, though she'd never admit to it for fear of hurting her sister's feelings, has left for boarding school and only comes home on special occasions. Those occasions never include playing with her anymore. And as a matter of fact, Sibella believes that neither of them were even as good as Monty, not as meek or forgiving.

  


"Oh, let's pretend!" She says and trots to her costume trunk that she hasn't opened in ages − it's so much more boring to dress up when you're on your own. She pulls out a few scarves, a pretty dress. "I'll be the princess."

  


"Yes!" Monty says, helping her into the pretty garments. "What else!"

  


He's quite a bit taller than her, but she thinks he'll fit just right into the outfits Grahame used to wear. She pulls out the tunic from the bottom of the trunk, the white and red one that Grahame never liked, and hands it to him.

  


"Am I a prince, then?" He asks hopefully.

  


She giggles, shaking her head as she finds him some wooden sword.

  


"Course not!" She clarifies. "As if you could be a prince!"

  


"Well, what am I, then?" He cocks an eyebrow and she likes the way his head falls to the side in disappointment, his lips pouting.

  


"You're a ragged knight who's come to save me from the…"

  


"The evil king!" Monty seems more than agreeable with the scenario. As fast as he can, he pulls the tunic over his head and drops to his knees, presenting his sword to her. "Anything for you, my princess, my lady."

  


They make a game of it and as the day passes, it feels like her room is not really her room anymore. It's a castle now, the lovely, fancy, perfect prison of a mad evil king who tricked her into marrying him with some dark magic spell and only Monty her valiant knight can rescue her. He is the most noble, the most courageous of knights she could have ever hoped for and none of the traps she invents in her prison are an obstacle to him. He defeats dragons, monsters, goblins, evil guards, even the most evil of all, the king her captor, until finally, at the end of a very eventful day here in this room, the maid pops in and announces that their game is over.

  


"Now, come," Isobel says, pulling on a very sorry Monty's arm. "It's time to go home. All good things must have an end."

  


How right she is, Isobel couldn't even fathom. She couldn't have a clue of how perfect a play mate Monty is, because she's a grown-up and grown-ups never understand these things. Sibella begs and whines and asks a thousand times but Monty is not allowed to stay for longer, not today.

  


Monty's visits become her treats, though. Sibella makes a scene with Isobel every day until finally, she agrees to ask for her mother's permission to bring Monty to the Hallward mansion on Saturdays. Every week, the house is near empty anyways and it's up to the both of them to explore it. Somehow, Sibella doesn't really miss Grahame as much if his room left empty for the bigger part of the school year can be the theatre stage of so many stories Monty and her create, and she doesn't mind her parents going out to the club without her all day if it means they won't bother her with this and that when she has so much more important duties playing the glorious princess to Monty's ragged knight.

  


But all good things must come to an end. How many months does it last, three, four, six? Enough that Sibella and Monty have pretended to get married a dozen times, a ritual only witnessed by her teddies, a secret they keep between the two of them, giggling with every vow after he saves her once more from the evil king who only wanted her for her beauty and mistreated her. She never knew that last week's wedding would be the last at all.

  


"Where's Monty?" She frowns that morning.

  


She's brought out her prettiest pink dress today, the one with the bows and the pearls that she's only supposed to wear at big fancy parties and weddings. Well, she has a wedding to attend today, if her own counts.

  


"What is it, darling?" Her father asks without bothering to look, too busy tying his tie in the entrance hall's mirror, getting ready for his Saturday golf course.

  


"Where is Monty?" She repeats exasperatedly. "He's supposed to be here already."

  


"Who?"

  


"My _friend_. He comes on Saturdays. Where is he?"

  


Her dad chuckles and, done with his tie, pats Sibella's head.

  


"You're too old to make up friends, pet," he tells her, messing the pretty braids she spent all morning arranging.

  


She slaps his hand away and he snorts. Sibella hates when he's like this, when what she says doesn't matter. It's supposed to always matter.

  


"I didn't make him up, he's Isobel's son and he's my best friend!"

  


"Who's Isobel?" To Mama in the other room, he cries out. "Do we know an Isobel, dear?"

  


"Don't be daft, she means our maid." She turns to Sibella, appraising her from head to toe. "Sweetie, you don't have to put your best dress for a day at home. The maid quit, in any case."

  


Sibella's mouth gapes open despite herself.

  


"She quit?" Her dad frowns.

  


"Mama, is this a joke?"

  


Her mum strokes her cheek gently then gets on with her day as well, grabbing her purse and her hat. When she answers, she's talking to Papa, not Sibella.

  


"Not to fret, I'll find us another. Her husband…" She glances at Sibella then and mutters the next few words. "Passed away unexpectedly. And to think she has a son about Grahame's age… Well, they had to move to Clapham and find work there."

  


"To _Clapham_?" Her dad shakes his head, a hand already on her mother's lower back as they make their exit. "Well, it's very lucky you'll find us a new one, then. A maid from Clapham… What would they say about us at the club?"

  


It's a very lonely day for Sibella, followed by so many others until she forgets the pain. It gets better when she starts school, when Sibella leaves her gilded prison every day and meets new people, makes new friends. She learns who she ought to be loved by, whose house she should get invited to, whose birthday parties matter. She grows into popularity and beauty, her shoulders bearing the weight of the knowledge that the prettier and the more agreeable she looks, the better off she'll be in society. And isn't that all that matters?

  


Life flows much easier and smoother for everyone when no one really knows the truth about each other, she tells herself. Everybody loves Sibella at the club, her calculated pretty smiles, her armor of courtesies, her bare shoulders that show just enough to incite temptation, but not nearly enough as to give earnest promise of more. That Sibella is also the one her brother and sister are so fond of. When she leaves home with them, they open her eyes to the splendor of the luxurious parties, the delightful outings at the theatre, the highest of society around her and Sibella learns to comply to every unspoken rule of these evenings out, to be the mellow and lovable young lady everyone expects her to be. Isn't it so much easier that way?

  


There is a Sibella that nobody knows. In this tower, there is a princess begging to be set free, she feels sometimes, but isn't it much easier to forget about that and smile like the pretty little thing she is? Sibella doesn't allow herself to wallow in solitude, not when there is so much excitement in company of good society. That Sibella is hidden away, the bars at her windows golden and lovely and so pretty you'd forget she was even trapped in the jail of complacency.

  


"Are you coming to the club? There's to be good company," Cynthia offers to Sibella on a Saturday. "Mama says at least twenty young men from Oxford…"

  


Out of habit, perhaps, because Saturdays were always a lonely business as a child, Sibella has taken to staying at home on those days even now that there are such good alternatives, now that the club holds at least a little bit of interest − not enough to make her leave home for her well deserved rest. It is, after all, tiring business to be pretty all week long.

  


"Oh, I'm tired of boys," Sibella whines, fanning herself. "I don't want to leave this seat."

  


It's ever so hot today, the middle of June and though the sun is punishing her for her beauty, she intends to spend the whole day out basking in its light. The boys are fun for a while, all twenty and above and craving the forbidden fruit of Sibella's sixteen years, but she gets bored of them so quickly it loses all interest.

  


"Well, suit yourself," Cynthia says, retouching her make-up and her hair in her pocket mirror. Pressing her lips together, her mouth makes a pop sound and she stands up, grabbing her purse from the long chair next to Sibella's. "Oh, did Mama tell you? There's a pool boy coming later today to clean the water. She says she's tired of asking Papa to do it, and then having to do it herself. Be kind to him, will you?"

  


"I will try not to seduce him to perdition," Sibella jokes and Cynthia snorts before pressing a kiss on her forehead and leaving for the club.

 

She applies some lotion − she should have asked Cynthia to do it for her, arranges her hair, and lays out in the sun. Maybe she'll take a few laps later in the day, but for the moment, she is content to simply be. Closing her eyes, she feels completely at peace with…

  


"Pardon me, Miss Hallward?" A voice interrupts and she startles, sitting abruptly.

  


She recognizes him instantly, even across the pool, even though she hasn't seen him in a decade. Something about his untamed hair, his profile, and though his face is much sharper than it was, he still looks like a boy, like the boy she knew.

  


"Monty…"

 


	2. The Poolboy and the Bore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sibella recounts to Monty a night she spent at the opera where she made a special acquaintance.

"Have you ever been to the opera?"

  


From her long chair and under Monty's hands, Sibella has never felt more relaxed in her entire life. She is quite certain that her parents do not pay him to be an impromptu masseur, but when she sighed one time too many at being unable to reach her back, he offered to apply the sun cream for her and kept rubbing long after her back was well protected from the heat of a lingering summer. There are many things that Sibella is sure Monty didn't quite sign up with, that weren't stipulated in the job offer. Oh, well. A pool boy is good for many things.

  


"No, Miss Sibella," he stutters. "No, I haven't."

  


She stretches herself, turning around to face the blinding sun and he pulls back from the massage as if he had been burned, getting back to his work as if he had never even been giving her a helping hand in the first place. She smirks, leaning up on her elbows. A net in hand, he is raking leaves and other bits from the pool, his eyes solely on the water.

  


"I have," she says. "It's boring."

  


He snorts but makes no sign of having heard otherwise. Such a hardworking boy. He's only been working for them for a couple months but Sibella has made it her mission to every week try to make him crumble and talk to her. There's something about him, even from childhood, that has fascinated her, something meek but also, she's certain, a deep hidden side of him that must be powerful and assertive. She's been trying ever so hard to bring it out of him. Every Saturday Sibella has been left home alone feels repayed in full by Monty's presence in her garden all day long now.

  


"My great-aunt Cora took us the other day," she adds. "That is, Grahame and me, and Lionel."

  


She stresses the last name and giggles as Monty drops the net into the water in surprise. He drops to his knees to get it back, stretching his arm as far as he can, but to no avail. Sibella sits up, looking at his struggle, and decides to take pity on him. Taking off her large brimmed sun hat, she shrugs off the cascade of her hair and dives into the cool water of the pool, August sun warming it up all day long but Monty has been monitoring its temperature like the model pool boy he is. Swimming to get the lost tool, she stops by next to him and hands it, offering it and pulling it back a couple times before finally letting it go.

  


"Lionel Holland," she says, leaning an elbow on the side of the pool, a hand tracing circles on Monty's bermuda shorts. "A friend of Grahame. He'll be joining him in Oxford next month, I've been told. Magdalen College. He has a yacht."

  


Monty's thigh tenses up under her fingers and he stands up at once. Sibella laughs openly at his grouch, batting her legs in the deliciously fresh water.

  


“He’s quite handsome, you know,” she adds. “Grahame says he went to Eton.”

  


Grahame, being the good second year student that he is, always the one with a kind word and a will to help out, has been assigned to dote on a newcomer in Oxford and the family has decided that this new boy should become friend with them all. Of course, Sibella was not one to refuse to meddle with a dashing young man from an important family. When her aunt offered to take the boys to the opera, she was first in line to invite herself to the party. Her hair up in a handsome bun, her most expensive dress, and pearls at her ears and her neck, she daresays she made quite the impression on the young Lionel Holland. All night, they talked and though the conversation was mundane and of little interest, she did learn his family had not one but two summer estates, in Scotland and on some island she instantly forgot the name of, a yacht and an important business under their name. What he did not say, but that she gathered, was that he did not land in Eton - or in Oxford, assuredly - through raw strength of wits.

  


“I’m sure you must have had a lovely night, Miss,” Monty says tightly, his jaw locked into what wants itself to be a polite smile.

  


“Oh, I did,” she sighs contentedly, leaning her elbows on the side of the pool, her head thrown back to have a look at him. “You don’t have siblings, do you, Monty?”

  


She’s only asking to make polite conversation. In truth, Monty and her have been talking all day long every Saturday the past eight or ten weeks and details such as family have long been shared between them. He is the only child of that Isobel, who used to be their maid before she lost her husband and had to downgrade from their apartment in town. They live together with an old friend he loves like a granny but who is of no blood relation. Of his father, he talks very little and always rather sternly and Sibella has thought it best to not ask any detail - she doesn’t even know his last name. But the rest, oh, she feels Monty and her know each other by heart by now. As docile and gentle-hearted as she remembered him from childhood, he has been half raising himself, and his mother has perfected the rest of it. Not to mention that he has grown very handsome. He stands quite a bit taller than her but his face is that of a doll, a child. She longs to play with the curls covering his head, to feel the hint of muscle she can’t help but notice under his scrawny arms earning his honest wages from her wealthy parents.

  


“I don’t,” he nods, entirely at his work by the pump of the pool near the shack. She bites her lip, looking at his back. She might try and leave the door half open when she showers later today. Just to see what might happen and squeal in fake horror if anything comes of it for the sake of seeing his blushed face.

  


"Grahame's alright," she says, pulling herself off the water and she's quite certain she sees him glance at her in the corner of his eyes from where he crouches. "Cynthia's… Well, she's older but everyone says I'm prettier."

  


"Of course," he says under his breath. "Yes, Miss Sibella, you're… very pretty."

  


" _Lionel_ ," she says pointedly, "said I looked snazzy in the dress I was wearing at the opera. He was in a tuxedo, have I told you? Tailor made. He looked dashing."

  


Monty's fists clench and he pretends that his groan of frustration is aimed at the machine rather than Sibella's words. She's telling the truth, though there is more to it. Lionel Holland is a very well made young man, straight teeth and handsome parting of the hair that make him look older than his eighteen years. Him and Monty might be of an age, yet what a world of difference between the two. Lionel has the charm of a gentleman, of someone who can take Sibella to the moon and back and cover the expenses ten times over. He makes her feel like she's more adult than she is, like she's a lady out and about, but who can be taken care of. Monty makes Sibella feel like a child again, like the teenager she is. He grounds her in the present, the foolish dreams her mind is constantly chasing, the desires as well. Sibella wonders which version of her is the true Sibella.

  


"I've a suit," Monty retorts. "I wore it for… Well, nevermind that. It's just a piece of fabric."

  


"An _expensive_ piece of fabric, if it's tailor made," Sibella points out. Lying back on the chair, she shakes the bottle of sun cream in the air. "Monty, can you pass me the lotion again? The pool rubbed it off."

  


It looks like for an instant Monty will refuse her, but he hasn't got even the courage to pretend to not be at her beck and call. Sibella giggles when the cold liquid hits her back, quickly smoothed over by Monty's warm palms and the gesture is so soothing that a moan escapes her unbidden.

  


"Well, I had a great night," she says. "At the opera with Lionel. Aunt Cora says we ought to go out more, that we made quite the pair. What do you think?"

  


Monty's hands turn much stiffer at her back.

  


"I don't know, Miss."

  


"It's expected, you know," she tells him. "I mean, I can't just lose the time of my youth, I've got to form relations as well, a network. This is how it's done."

  


Again, her back protected against the sun. Such a hot day today, and to think her parents at the club, Grahame heaven knows where, Cynthia at her friends. How do they bare the heat without a pool? Sibella is much better here.

  


"I wouldn't know," he mutters, his hands still rubbing circles, slowly getting less tense.

  


She sighs, basking in the renewed tenderness of his touch.

  


"Mama says most relationships of importance are made before even getting to university. She met my father when she visited her brother in… Oh, I don't want to bore you with old people stories," she giggles. "But who knows, maybe I've met my future husband already and if I have, shouldn't I be nice to him, what do you think?"

  


Monty doesn't even pretend to have anything to say to that.

  


"I could do a lot worse than to be courted by Lionel Holland. My aunt says that, the way he looked at me, it's only a matter of moment till he admits to his feelings…"

  


"He's not the only one who has feelings for you!" Monty cries out rashly.

  


Sibella gasps as Monty stops all caresses at her back and she turns around at once to find him sitting at the edge of the long chair, staring at his twisting hands.

  


"Monty…"

  


"I know I'm just a… pool boy," he sighs, "A poor, but that doesn't mean I can't… I've been hoping to tell you of my…"

  


"Oh, Monty," she says, grabbing his hands and stilling them between hers. "What do you know of feelings? Come and kiss me."

  


Monty does not need to be begged twice. Leaning down, he captures her mouth with his and he tastes of peppermint gum and desperation to rise above, to be more tomorrow than he is today. His arms wrap around Sibella's waist, bringing her closer, and she grabs onto his shoulders, the other hand combing through his hair as she had hoped for such an eternity as two months can be. Sibella's first kiss smells of chlorine and sweat, but she's having a lot of fun and wouldn't have it any other way. Monty kisses her like a thirsty man in the desert who has found an oasis. She likes the importance.

  


" _Sibella_ ," Monty whispers against her lips and she refrains from chiding him for being so familiar.

  


She melts into his hands, trying to keep all her countenance when all she wants is to laugh, to sing, to tell Monty that he's a very pretty thing and he makes her giddy and merry inside.They're all so very close, their mouths pouring all the frustration of two months of pent up desire into each other, and Sibella is soon half straddling him.

  


"Sibella…" His voice is honey against her ear, warm as this summer day, hot as their secret.

  


"Monty," she moans, pulling his hand to her lap, craving his touch everywhere, at her hips, her thighs, and God knows…

  


"Sibella?" Says a voice from the house that is most definitely not Monty's.

  


Scrambling off his lap, Sibella tries to fan her very pink cheeks as Monty walks away so briskly he's almost running, checking on the flowerbeds, and there is a very respectable distance between the both of them by the time Cynthia pops out of the sliding glass doors. Sibella feels hotter than ever, her thighs close together as she sits on the chair, feet under her, pretending to be comfortably reading a magazine under the sun.

  


"Mmh?"

  


"Oh, there you are!" Cynthia sighs happily, taking a seat in the chair next to hers. "Aren't you hot out here? Did you put sun cream?"

  


Sibella feels very glad for the sun hiding her blush.

  


"Yes, yes I did. Weren't you supposed to come back later?"

  


Cynthia waves a dismissive hand.

  


"And waste time I could spend with my favorite sister? Come on, you said nothing about the opera! Mama said you became very well acquainted with that Lionel Holland…"

  


She jabs a teasing finger into Sibella's thigh. Across the garden, Monty is very focused on removing the last possible bit of weed from the dry dirt. Sibella smiles politely.

  


"Now, what do you want to know?"

  


"Everything? Tell me everything!"

  


Sibella abides. It's quite a while before Cynthia has had her fill, long enough that the sun has started to set. It's a lovely sight out here, the sky purple and orange and blue, and reflecting on the pool. The pool boy is gone for the day, disappeared at some point during the story. Sibella never even noticed, too engrossed in the details of Lionel's gallantry, of the luxury of the opera palace, of the beauty of everyone's dresses. She wishes she'd have had the time to bid Monty a proper goodbye for the week. She hopes and plans to give him a better farewell next time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, I beg of you, leave a comment, even if you don't typically leave comments on fics. It takes 2 seconds, you can just leave a few words, it takes zero creativity or effort. Please.


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